


Lip-Blocked

by ereshai



Series: Various Prompt Fills [21]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Many kinds of kisses, Sappy, tvtropes.org is a dangerous site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Enough of this,” Natasha says in Clint’s ear. “You two need to get your shit together.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lip-Blocked

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my '100 followers on tumblr' celebration. The prompt was Clint/Coulson, first kiss.  
> I blame tvtropes.org for what this fic became.  
> I apologize for the horribly punny title, but I couldn't resist.

**The Indirect Kiss**

“Enough of this,” Natasha says in Clint’s ear. “You two need to get your shit together.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The lie is weak, and Clint knows it.

Coulson is at the end of the hallway, talking to Sitwell. He’s got a stack of folders in one hand, probably for the mission briefing that’s scheduled in five minutes, and a go-cup of coffee in the other. He takes a drink and nods at whatever Sitwell is saying.

“If you don’t ask him out, I’m going to do it for you. In the middle of the cafeteria at lunchtime. With a megaphone.” Natasha plucks his own cup out of his hands. “I need this more than you do. It’s too early in the morning for another meeting full of furtive glances whenever one of you thinks the other isn’t looking.”

“Hey!” Clint protests the loss of his coffee. “Wait. Really?” Natasha just walks into the conference room, shaking her head. He’s not too worried that she’ll carry out her threat; it’s not her style. He’s more interested in the furtive glances. Coulson doesn’t do that. Does he?

Clint’s still gaping after Natasha when Coulson approaches him. “Problem, Barton?”

“No! Uh, yeah. She stole my coffee.”

“Hmm,” Coulson says, and takes a sip from his cup.

“That’s just cruel, sir.”

Coulson smiles, his eyes crinkling. “After you,” he says, nodding at the door in front of them.

Clint enters the room, very aware of Coulson’s eyes on him. At least, he’s pretty sure Coulson’s watching him; he can usually tell, but with Coulson, his instincts go haywire. He takes the seat next to Natasha. Coulson passes behind them, places his cup of coffee in front of Clint, then hands each of them a folder before joining Fury at the head of the table.

He and Natasha stare at the cup.

“Wow,” Clint breathes.

“See,” Natasha hisses. “He shares coffee with _no one_.”

Clint looks at Coulson, but now he’s speaking to Fury. Natasha elbows him. “Enough with the gazing.”

“I’m not _gazing_ ,” he mutters, and Natasha snorts. Clint looks back down at the cup. This is probably nothing, despite Coulson’s legendary coffee addiction. They’re friends; they even watch _Dog Cops_ together every week at Coulson’s place, schedules permitting. He picks it up. Coulson’s watching him, he knows it. The cup is still warm, and at least half full. Shit, it’s probably not nothing. Clint looks up at Coulson and lifts the cup to his mouth. Just before his lips touch the plastic lid, their eyes meet, and he takes a drink. They don’t look away, even when Clint lowers the cup. He licks his lips. Coulson’s eyes flick down, and then his tongue darts out to lick his own lips. _Jesus Christ._

Fury begins the briefing, and Clint reluctantly looks away. He sneaks quick glances (fuck, he _is_ being furtive) at Coulson all through the meeting, and doesn’t look away when he finds Coulson doing the same thing. Drinking the rest of the coffee becomes an exercise in self-control; swiping a stray drop from the lid and licking it from his thumb shouldn’t feel as erotic as it does under Coulson’s steady gaze.

Finally, the briefing ends. Clint pitches the empty cup into a wastebasket, and gathers up his folder. Natasha does the same, then intercepts Sitwell on his way out the door.

“I need to requisition a megaphone,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically loud.

“No problem,” Sitwell answers with a grim look at Coulson. _Oh, shit._

_~*~_

**The Almost Kiss**

Clint catches Coulson in his office at lunch time.

“Got your favorite, sir,” he says, holding up the Styrofoam containers in his hand.

“Thank you, Barton.” Coulson smiles. “But I wasn’t planning on working through lunch.”

“Even better,” Clint tells him. “I can show you my favorite spot to eat.”

“As long as it’s not here in my office.” Coulson closes down his computer, grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, and slips it on, smoothing down the front and straightening his tie once he has it on.

“Trust me.” Clint can’t blame him for thinking that; he’s eaten more than his fair share of meals in Coulson’s office, but only because Coulson had been there, too.

He leads Coulson up to the roof. There’s an old wooden picnic table there, with a battered looking umbrella sticking up from the middle of it. It’s been there since before Clint had joined SHIELD; someone maintains it – replaces the umbrella when it gets really bad, and once they even got a whole new table after an unfortunate lightning strike – but Clint has no idea who’s doing it. It really is his favorite spot to eat, and today it has the added bonus of being very far from the cafeteria, where he had seen Natasha standing around with the promised megaphone under one arm. He’ll do his own damn asking, when he’s damn well ready.

“I haven’t eaten up here in years,” Coulson says, and Clint grins.

Clint puts their lunch containers down and steps over the bench to take a seat. To his surprise, Coulson sits next to him instead of on the opposite side, not that Clint is complaining. It’s a nice day – sunny, with a slight breeze to keep it from being too warm. They’re angled toward each other, knees touching, and neither of them moves away. They eat quickly and efficiently, in comfortable silence.

“Dessert?” Clint asks when they’re done. He pulls a plastic baggie out of the side pocket of his pants. There are two chocolate chip cookies inside. “One of the cafeteria crew hooked me up.”

“Thank you.” Coulson smiles as he takes one.

They finish the cookies all too soon; Clint wishes he could have gotten more, but he’d been pushing his luck to get any in the first place – desserts don’t last long around SHIELD. Coulson wipes his mouth with his napkin, but there are still a few tiny crumbs on his chin.

“Missed a spot.” Clint brushes the crumbs away with his thumb. Coulson leans into his touch, and Clint freezes. “Got it,” he whispers.

“Thanks,” Coulson murmurs. Neither of them moves away.

“Phil,” Clint says, leaning toward him, his eyes on Coulson’s mouth.

“Yeah.” Coulson leans in even further. Their faces are inches apart. Clint’s eyes drift shut.

An alarm blares, and they spring apart. Coulson pulls out his phone to check his system alerts. His shoulders slump. “Fire drill.”

“Now? Really?”

Drills of any kind are taken seriously at SHIELD; Fury doesn’t want avoidable mistakes getting people killed. Clint doesn’t even bother to suggest they wait it out on the roof. He ditches their garbage in the small can by the door, and then they both climb down the fire escape.

~*~

**The Anywhere But Their Lips Kiss**

To say the op had not gone well is an understatement. Surveillance usually means no contact with the target; unfortunately, there had been plenty of contact with the target, mostly in the form of his fists and Clint’s face. Clint had maintained his cover, which meant not wiping the floor with the guy. He’d managed to deflect the worst blows, so no broken bones. That’s small comfort when his face feels like an overstuffed sausage.

“It isn’t advisable to flirt with a gun runner’s mistress, Barton,” Coulson says as he walks into Clint's room in Medical.

“I really wasn’t,” Clint mumbles. Talking makes his face hurt, so he’s trying not to do so much of it. The gun runner had taken exception to Clint’s ‘pretty face’, or rather, taken exception to his mistress’ admiration of it, and that’s where he’d concentrated most of his blows.

“Natasha took over, as planned. You played the part of the slightly drunk bar patron perfectly.”

“Nailed it.” It takes too much work to keep his swollen eyes open any longer, so he lets them slip shut. “Not sleepin’,” he tells Coulson. “Talk t’ me.”

They haven’t seen each other very often since their lunch on the roof, what with Coulson helping Hill reacquaint those departments that had performed poorly during the fire drill with their policies and procedures manuals; that meant department-specific drills – every single safety drill in the book – on top of Coulson’s regular work. They’d missed a few of their Friday night viewings of _Dog Cops_ , and Clint had taken to bringing Coulson something to eat before he left for the night. The timing just hadn’t been right for anything personal. Maybe now that everything has calmed down, they can get somewhere.

He hears Coulson walk to the side of the bed and drag a chair closer. Then there’s a soft kiss on his forehead, and Coulson sits down and starts to tell him about the latest addition to his collection of Captain America trading cards.

~*~

**The Big Damn Kiss**

“What’s up with you and Coulson?” Natasha demands. “Talk.” She follows that up with a kick to Clint’s head, which he blocks before dropping and spinning in an attempt to sweep her other leg out from under her. She avoids him with a back handspring, and flips forward again as soon as her feet hit the mat. He’s just rising from his crouch when she hits him with both knees on his shoulders, knocking him back and pinning him down on the mat.

“Well?” she asks him as she lets him up.

Clint shrugs and grabs his towel to wipe the sweat off his face. “I dunno. Something’s changed. I’m pretty sure.”

“Ask him out, and put us all out of your misery. Please.” Natasha drinks from her water bottle before picking up her own towel. “I can still get that megaphone from Sitwell.”

“Just…don’t. I’ll ask him, okay?”

They walk down the hall to the locker rooms, passing a few other agents going the other way. They always schedule their sparring sessions before the evening rush; their workout has been turned into an exhibition too many times in the past.

“Clint!” a voice calls from the other end of the hallway. They turn to see Coulson coming toward them.

Natasha elbows him in the side and hisses, “Ask him.” She waves at Coulson, then ducks into the women’s locker room.

“Natasha was in a hurry. It must be date night,” Coulson says as he gets closer.

“I guess. She didn’t really say.”

“Are we on for _Dog Cops_?” Coulson pulls Clint out of the path of a group of junior agents on their way to the gym.

“Oh, yeah, sure. You’re not working late tonight?” Clint feels sweat trickling down his temple, and he wipes his face with the corner of his towel.

“I’m taking a night off. How are you feeling?” Coulson gestures at his face, which is still bruised.

“Looks worse than it feels. So, the usual time?”

“That will be fine. I’ll order pizza.”

Coulson makes his good-byes, and turns to leave. Clint watches him until he’s out of sight, then goes into the locker room. He’s getting dressed after his shower when he realizes that Coulson had called him ‘Clint’. He’s always been ‘Barton’, even after they had started hanging out together outside of work. He shouldn’t get his hopes up, but there they are, waving at him from the top of a cliff. Probably where the phrase ‘dashed hopes’ came from, from being shoved off that fucking cliff. Fuck, when did he start thinking in stupid metaphors?

Natasha’s nowhere to be found when he leaves the locker room, but she and Maria don’t get to spend a lot of time together, so it probably is date night. Clint goes home and mopes around his apartment until it’s time to leave for Coulson’s place. He should get a dog or something.

He can smell the pizza as he knocks on Coulson’s door. His stomach growls. Phil opens the door – he’s in worn jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. When they hang out, and the suit is nowhere to be seen, Clint lets himself call Coulson by his first name. It helps him separate work and play. Phil doesn’t have the same problem; he always calls Clint ‘Barton’. _Except today._

“Are you coming in?” Phil’s giving him a puzzled look.

Clint blinks. How long has he been standing there like a dumbass? “Yeah.” He walks in, brushing past Phil as he closes the door behind him.

“The pizza’s on the coffee table. Why don’t you get _Dog Cops_ started? I just have to grab the napkins.”

Clint’s still navigating the DVR menu when Phil brings out the napkins and a couple of beers.

“How’d we miss so many?” Clint complains as he scrolls through the list.

“There was a marathon – we’ve seen most of these.” Phil hands him a beer, and sits on the couch, right next to him.

“Here we go.” Clint starts an episode; they’ve missed four. Only four, but that’s a month’s worth of Phil-time he’s also missed. Despite his nerves – he’s going to ask Phil on an actual date tonight, dammit – he settles easily into their Friday night routine. Three slices of pizza and most of a bottle of beer later, the episode is over.

“Only two pieces left,” Phil says, lifting the lid of the pizza box. “Want one?”

“Kinda full right now.” Clint finishes his beer and sets it on the table.

“Let me put this away before we start another episode.” Phil picks up the pizza box and their crumpled napkins. “You want another beer?” he asks as he picks up his empty bottle.

“Nah, I’m good.” When Phil reaches for Clint’s bottle, Clint grabs it first. “Here, let me help.”

“I don’t need both hands to carry two slices of pizza in a cardboard box,” Phil says, but he surrenders the bottle in his hand without a fuss when Clint tugs at it.

Clint trails Phil into the kitchen, where Phil wraps the pizza in foil and throws away the garbage. Clint tosses the empties in with the recycling, and leans against the counter next to the fridge. Phil opens the fridge to put the pizza away, bending over to find a clear spot on one of the shelves. When he straightens up and closes the door, he’s only inches away from Clint.

“Phil,” Clint begins. Now is the perfect time to ask. He just needs the right words. His mouth is suddenly dry, and he licks his lips. “Phil, do you-“

Phil cups the side of Clint’s face, leans forward, and kisses him. His lips are soft. The kiss is hesitant and over too soon, and Clint’s brain comes back online just in time to stop Phil from pulling away. He puts his hands on Phil’s waist and tugs him forward. Phil wraps his arms around Clint and relaxes against him.

This time, Clint initiates the kiss. He darts his tongue along Phil’s lips; he can taste a slight hint of beer, but maybe that’s him. The kiss deepens, and Clint loses himself in the feel of Phil’s mouth on his, Phil’s body against his.

When the kiss ends, they’re both breathing hard; Clint’s heart is racing. They move apart, just a little, but they’re still in each other’s arms. Clint likes it.

“What did you want to ask me?” Phil asks when he catches his breath.

“Huh?” Clint says blankly.

“You were going to ask me something.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Phil waits, an expectant look on his face. Despite the kiss, Clint is suddenly nervous all over again.

“Um, do you want to do something with me sometime?” And that is the lamest thing that has ever come out of his mouth. “Like, go on a date?”

“I’ll think about it,” Phil answers, but he’s got a big grin on his face.

“You do that.” Clint can’t help himself, he has to kiss him again.

 


End file.
